


Threads of Fate

by miphas_alt_account



Category: Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity (Video Game), The Legend of Zelda, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Blood, Blood Play, Blowjobs, Bondage, Drinking blood, F/M, Fingering, Knives, Oral Sex, Restraints, Sex, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Sex, also he has a rant in here about fate and dying which i personally believe is very sexy of him, also he's a total sadboy as much as he is a Dark and Brooding Mysterious Prophet, astor really just like staring at you and being a general creep, but thats like what we love about him right, cutting (but not in a self harm way in a blood play kink way), everyone but the villains are dead, gagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27912580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miphas_alt_account/pseuds/miphas_alt_account
Summary: The kingdom of Hyrule has at last fallen into ruin.  You have survived the Great Calamity thanks to the cunning foresight of your lover, a prophet of Calamity Ganon.  He takes you through the ruined castle, where you spend some much-needed alone time together.  He ties you up, has his way with you, and considers his own role at the hands of fate.There's detail and exposition, smut with intrigue, philosophy, and plot!---the game's been out for two weeks, somebody had to do it.
Relationships: Astor/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 25





	Threads of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> So i actually write in another fandom primarily, but hot holy hell am i feeling some way about this man. this is an alt account i made specifically to post this fic, because it's a lot more explicit than my other works and i don't want it tied up in any way to the rest. writing and posting explicit fics like this isn't really my thing. but man. this time i really felt compelled to write. and i ended up pretty proud of it, and so i wanted to share.
> 
> the gist is that Astor used to be the royal seer, and he was the one who foresaw the Calamity, and he chose to join and make a pact with Ganon rather than perish with the rest of the kingdom.
> 
> 'you' are referred to as you in this fic, but you're also kind of more of an original character rather than just 'yourself.'
> 
> you, the character, are someone that Astor met along his journey to raise Calamity Ganon and his pact with him. you're probably from some small village and you joined the ranks of Ganon's followers at some point. you don't say a lot, but you've been with him for awhile, and the ultimate plan here next is to corrupt the Triforce and you get the third piece along with Astor and Ganon. so you are really just kind of a placeholder.
> 
> and this character really is just someone for you, the reader, to project on, anyway. so enjoy ✨
> 
> psa please don't drink blood irl and use condoms

All of Hyrule swirls in a thick pool of Malice. True, while the worst of the battle has now come and gone, and the Divine Beasts have finally quieted after bringing their pilots to their slumber, the air still hangs heavy with the blood of the Calamity. Hylians cannot count their survivors, for most of them cannot be found, and those who remain loyal to the king--even after his defeat--are methodically, systematically being scouted out by the Guardians as you, in safety, look quietly out over the empty field.  


But today, in spite of all this, the sun is shining, and an eerie quiet sets itself out over the ruined kingdom. Few traces of smoke remain--a great rain had come yesterday to wash them all out--and the earth is now in the process of drying its tears. Resting peacefully, if decimated, like each of the king’s soldiers, and beginning the slow and grueling process of accepting its new fate. And, from this height, looking over the tattered remains of Hyrule’s Castle Town, a cool, reassuring wind blows over your shoulders. It tousles your hair, as if to speak to you like a friend, as if to remind you that from here, life can finally move on.  


You stand there for awhile, enjoying the peace, basking in the lull of the mournful silence, at least thankful to see the sun again after spending the last few days in a bunker. For your safety, they had told you. And it was. You had been spared, graciously, by both their own foresight and the mercy of Calamity Ganon, while many others not aligned with the Calamity had perished. You are thankful that, long ago, you had elected to take the side of fate. And, you are grateful, then, for your lover, and his ability to commune with these forces, convincing you to join him all those years ago, and ultimately, thus sparing your life on the night of the Calamity. As he said it was written, that was how it would be. And it was, and is. Entirely. His prophecy, like many others, was one hundred percent correct.  


Although, you have not seen him recently.  


But then, as if summoned by your need, you sense a familiar shadow creeping up behind you. Without turning to look--for there is really only one person it can be--you continue to rest your hands on the rail of the balcony. He steps up next to you and stops there.  


“My love,” he says, looking out to where your eyes fall on the horizon. “I am pleased to find you well here.”  


You look up at him and smile, the light catches enough from under his hood that you can see his face, and he looks to you in return, brushing you warmly on the arm with his thumb.  


“It appears you made it out of the rubble in one piece, that’s positive,” he says. “My apologies for being a bit hard to come by these days. As you can imagine, there are a few loose ends to tie up.”  


A silence falls between you as you stare out over Hyrule Field. In the distance, you can see a few stray Guardian stalkers, patrolling their territories the way they usually do.  


“Are you enjoying the view?” he asks. “Assessing your kingdom? This is a sight you can get used to, and it’s one you’ll have the luxury of seeing every day.” His eyes scan over the flattened Castle Town, where the fountain--although the statue is broken--still stands in the center, and a few stray, though tattered, flags blow in the wind. “Albeit, Castle Town is currently in ruins, and it was quite the sight in the day. But it is a vital landmark, so I’m sure we’ll repair and repopulate it shortly.”  


He moves closer to you and puts his arms around your waist. The dark of his garments engulf the light, modest colors of your own. He holds you there as you both continue to look out to the horizon, to the sky, and to the clouds. “In a few days’ time, we’ll hold a celebratory banquet, here in the castle, with all those who decided to align with the Calamity. We have forces going to the village to collect offerings as we speak. There is still much work to be done in the castle--what, with all the debris--but I do believe some if it adds a certain charm. A reminder of the follies of the kingdom before us, and of the overpowering might of the Calamity. Don’t you agree?”  


You admit, you have a particular allure in you when it comes to ruins. Hyrule itself is full of mysterious relics and artifacts that you reveled to explore, even well before the age of the Calamity. These were, in fact, how you had come to know Astor in the beginning. And now, surely, the rubble of these towns, cities, and landmarks would take their root over the next hundred years or so, from that which was not rebuilt, and become ruins of their own with fables and lore. And now, to have the opportunity to live in your own relic, a storied, broken, abandoned, and rebuilt monument to the fate of Hyrule, was something of a dream.  


“I have a bit of sweeping up to do on my own,” he says. “Would you care to accompany me on a walk through the palace? I’m not sure you’ve seen all your new home has to offer, and I’d be obliged to give you a tour.”  


You agree, and Astor leads you inside through the palace halls, where there are burns, scrapes, tears on the walls, in the red carpet that lines the floor. Without people, its grandness is desolate, but this emptiness is enchanting to you. Marks from stray swords, Guardians, and fallen plates of armor litter the halls where Hylian armies met their fate. The red of the flooring, you know, helps to conceal the pools of blood spilled in the battle. While most of the gore no longer remains, the white marble makes it inevitable that you catch a few bloody smears here and there, especially where the carpet is torn open, or where a soldier had struggled to lift himself up with a statue or railing in his dying moments. These traces of ruin, of desolation and violence, do not bother you. You know this destruction is only a fact of life.  


Astor leads you through this room and that as he makes his way toward the east wing, where the library and his old quarters lie. He keeps you from peering too deeply into a few wide rooms where some soldiers gather--presumably, the sites of some rather gruesome massacres. Likely at the hand of a Blight. You come to the library, where papers and books are still scattered on the floor. Desks lay overturned, shelves and archives messied, the king’s study ransacked, and the opening of the secret passage to and from the docks hanging open behind the moving bookshelf. You can sense how Astor’s being straightens--tense to behold such destruction in one of his most precious areas of the castle--but he pushes forward up the stairs and into the next wing.  


You come to his study--a location that, having been far enough away from the violence, remains relatively unscathed. Perhaps that had been his doing, as he had orchestrated a fair portion of the assault. In the room, there are two arched windows, one with a door that opens out to another small balcony. In addition to the bookshelves and chests where he keeps his ritual objects, you see a modest altar reserved for smaller rituals. You know this isn’t the main room where he does his more elaborate ceremonies, but you know his daily work and divination takes place here. And always did, when he was still a royal adviser.  


As you pass a thin bookshelf, and a fireplace with a small mantle, you catch your eyes on a broken picture frame. You are familiar with these kinds of images, able to be rendered with ancient Sheikah technology. And what you gaze upon, through its shattered glass, is a gathering of people--many of which don the bright blue of the royals, and others in the navy blue berets of the guard. You make out, in the center, the visage of the former king of Hyrule, and next to him, the Queen--a rare sight, as not many images of her remain. She is holding a small, swaddled infant--presumably, Princess Zelda--and a group of other advisers surround them. To the side, near the edge of the group--although by no means excluded--stands a younger version of Astor. His hood is down--something you did not often see of him these days--so that his long hair is visible, still hanging in parts over his head. His skin is still flush here, and human-colored. He does not yet have the eye, nor the mark of the Calamity. That, perhaps, aside from his wide, innocent, though, admittedly-shy grin, is what was most peculiar and compelling about the image.  


Astor, combing through his ritual objects, does not notice you examine the portrait. Or, if he does, he elects not to say anything.  


“Yes,” he says. “While the last of the blood has been spilt over the Calamity, there is still much to do. Mostly,” he sighs. “Housekeeping.” He moves some books from one shelf to the other. “There’s quite a lot involved in starting up a new regime. We’ve made ample preparations, of course, but it still requires thorough and regular communication with Lord Ganon. Much of the legwork can be delegated to the grunts, of course, but we still have a long way to go before any of us may rest easily. And further, still, it will be, as we rise to the crown.”  


But at this, he turns to look at you. You have wandered to gaze out the window again, and you feel him stare. He studies you. After a moment, he begins a slow, deliberate approach, in which he brings you into his arms and sweeps a bit of hair behind your ears. His touch is cold, but not in a callous or unpleasant way. As his skin sweeps across your own, you feel that rush of icy coolness shoot through your spine. Through his entire perfunctory tour of the castle, you had wondered when he was finally going to get to this. He caresses your neck, then pulls you closer and lowers his lips to your ears. “But, do not think, my love, for one minute that I had forgotten you,” he says, with a breath. “I have craved you like the victory we now reap across Hyrule. And now, like victory, I can savor you knowing that these defiers of prophecy have gotten their judgment, and the faithful have been granted their reward.”  


He leans in to kiss you, and you rise to meet him. It is long, sensual, and drawn out. This is the first your lips have met in quite a long while. You feel his tension rising, how his muscles twitch as if he wants to grab you and take you immediately, but he remains slow, steady, and deliberate, the way most of his ritual training requires of him. He undoes the ties of your blouse, lifting it off gently from you and tracing the contours of your neck, shoulders, and breasts. He kisses your body, slowly, and you curl in return, pressing yourself further into his arms.  


“Please indulge me in my most wanton desires,” he whispers. “Hyrule’s new heir, my dark and silent princess.”  


“I will,” you say, breathless.  


“Excellent. Because I have craved you, badly. I have craved you, ravenously, the way a creature with fangs lusts for flesh on the night of the blood moon,” he says. “But, in spite of my carnal and most ravenous desire for you, we had to be apart. To keep you safe, my dear. The battlefield is no place for such nobility. Unlike the Hylian forces, who so carelessly threw their own princess into combat, foolishly believing she could do anything to circumvent their fate. Which is why we have waxed victorious, and they have waned in defeat.”  


His hand grazes against your collarbone, brushing a part of your hair away from your shoulders to expose the bare skin underneath. He caresses you, thoughtfully for a moment, like a precious relic he thought he might never see through to the end of the war, and he addresses you once more.  


“And now that the battle is decided, and Ganon’s reign has finally begun, my desire for you cries out to me. I had been neglecting it, you see. For my duty,” he says. “But now that our work is complete, I may lust for you freely once again. And my lust only grows stronger now, than it had before, the last I saw you. When the kingdom of Hyrule had not yet tasted defeat.”  


He brushes his lips across your shoulders, stopping to kiss your neck and then following the curve of your skin up to your ear again. He wraps his arms around you and holds you there, tightly. “Perhaps absence does truly make the heart grow fonder,” he says. “Did you miss me, my love? The way I missed you?”  


You let out a positive sigh, hardly managing a “Yes,” though it is clear from the way the sound escapes your mouth as Astor leads his hands down toward your vulva. He presses them there for a moment, then draws away.  


“Good,” he says. “Because I want you, badly, and I want you all to myself.” He moves to the window, where a dark, black chest rests nearby. He pulls out a few lengths of red rope, satin, and black chiffon. “And I want you so badly that you should not escape,” he says, stretching the rope out at length. “Not that I believe you would, dove. But you know me. I want to be absolutely sure.”  


Astor approaches you, backing you a bit into a corner as you realize you are now nearly standing with your back up against a broken angel statue. It wields a stone sword, planted firmly into the ground, which Astor uses to thread around you, arms behind your back, and secures his first knot just above your elbows. Seeing your arms now tied behind you, arching your chest out toward him, he gives you a bit of a grin and a squeeze. “My little angel,” he says. He glances downward, quickly, and makes a beeline for your breasts, rolling his tongue around your nipple and sucking on it, hard. He maintains this only briefly, then sweeps down further, drawing your skirts to the floor. You gasp as now stand bare, and he wraps himself there between your legs for a flash of an instant. But, before you can really feel anything, he sweeps upward once more to stand with you, wiping his mouth and proceeding as if nothing happened. He squeezes your nipple, however, with a quick wink and a mischievous grin. Your body puckers, you wish so badly that he would continue, and he sees this desire written on you. He gives you another pinch in acknowledgement and goes back to tying, making another knot at your waist, above your knees, and finally your ankles. He goes back to secure your wrists for good measure, bringing his body in luscious proximity to your own.  


“There,” he says. “That should do nicely.”  


He slides his hands free of your wrists, giving the rope a final tug to check it was secure, and assesses his handiwork up and down your body. “Are you comfortable, my rose? I’d never want you dissatisfied in playing your role.”  


You let out a deep, rapturous sigh.  


“Good,” he says, smiling. “I want you to follow me, and you will do everything I say.” He brushes his hands up your arms and pushes his fingertips into your mouth. “Are we understood?”  


You manage to give a bit of a nod as your lips wrap around his fingers and you begin to suck on them. He presses his thumb around the side of your mouth and starts to wedge it in between your teeth. “Bite me,” he says, and you oblige. You see him at first wince in pain, and inhale, but there is a release as he sighs and relaxes into it. He straightens up and readjusts his position in your mouth.  


“Harder,” he demands, as he presses his thumb more firmly into your mouth and his other hand against your neck. This time, as you bite down, you catch the taste of iron as it begins to flow through your mouth. “Good girl,” he says and withdraws his hand, carefully examining his thumb. He raises his thumb to his lips and makes fierce eye contact with you as he runs his own tongue around the blood seeping from the wound. He holds it there for a moment, sucking the taste of iron out of his flesh while continuing to stare at you with a hawk’s eye.  


After a few more moments of this intense, piercing eye contact, sizing you up like a predator to its prey, he draws his thumb away from his mouth and reaches for the last of the long, red silk sheets from the box at the window.  


“Open,” he says, and you obey. He fits a thick portion of the fabric into your mouth--enough to comfortably bite down on--and ties the rest behind your head. “Everything comfortable? Not too tight?” he asks. You manage an affirmative sound, and he nods, brushing your hair around to one side of your shoulders, as he hangs the long, silk ties over your breast. “Good,” he says. “You may be my little plaything, but I want to keep you in spotless condition.” There is a brief pause, and then his lips twist into a devious smile. “Of course, save for the parts where I deflower you.”  


He twists his hand around your breast and squeezes onto you, quickly. You hardly have time to swoon in reaction before he lets his hands slide down your waist and he follows them down to the v of your hips. From here, his icy hands hold on to the back of your legs and his lips make contact with your pubic bone. He extends his tongue outward to tease your labia, and you again curl in ecstasy, letting out a loud moan and “Oh!” as you go. Astor stops.  


“I want silence,” he orders. You slacken, again glancing down at him while he stares up at you with a piercing glance. His glare quickly slackens in turn, and he runs his hands up and down your sides, massaging you. “Can you do that for me, darling? You may bite down on your thread, but make not a single, solitary sound.”  


You nod, and Astor slides black down your body, where he stops once again between your thighs. He rests his head there and buries his nose into the inside of your upper leg. He inhales deeply and then sighs, reveling in the scent as he again begins to move his lips to your vulva. You squirm as his tongue probes further; his mouth, being probably the warmest part of his body at this point, considering the icy, near-bloodless complexion that covers the rest of his skin. The warmth and moisture enlivens your senses, and you can’t help but curl inward even past your restraints--especially being forbidden to speak--and Astor tightens his grasp on you, holding you still so you must confront this intense wave of feeling head-on. It seems almost insurmountable as he presses deeper, you almost forget such a surge of intensity is only being caused by the sucking and curling of his lips. You clench down on your teeth--hard--to keep yourself from screaming in delight.  


After awhile--you aren’t sure how long--the intensity wanes, and Astor rises, wiping his face clean of the saliva and wetness. He presses himself against you, the bare skin of his abdomen and chest making contact with your own, and he leans in, close. He pulls the silk scarf down out of your mouth, holds you still by your jaw, and plants his lips forcefully onto yours. You can taste the musty, saline mixture that lingers in his mouth, knowing it is the taste of your own flesh. It is a flavor that, through him, you had come to enjoy. The taste meant pleasure, and it meant that he would soon be inside you.  


The salty, acidic smell passes through his breath to you, and now you--like him--relish its odor. He slackens slightly, although still holding you firm, as he keeps one hand pressed near your neck and the other roaming near your vagina.  


“How are you feeling, dove?” he asks. “Are you pleased? Excited?” He threads his fingers up and down, in and out of you as he continues to maintain his eye contact. “You may speak if you wish,” he whispers, “but a delicate sound is all I need.”  


You are breathless, and not quite sure what to speak. So you let out another whimpering, capitulating sound, and his lips twist into a smile.  


“Excellent,” he says. “Because there is more where that came from. We haven’t even gotten to my fun yet.”  


Astor kneels down and begins to untie you, starting at your ankles, making his way up to your knees, hips, and elbows. With each progression, he lays a kiss delicately on your body, like an act of reverence from a servant to a queen. As he stands to meet you again, the restraints fall to your feet, and he takes the last of the silk carefully from your head. He gathers the silk and threads and starts to head to the other side of the room, where there is a coffee table and an elegant--although slightly uncomfortable looking--dark rococo-style canapé, typical of furnishings in the castle.  


He places the threads on the table, then leans over to undress from his pants. You watch as the rest of his slender, ivory-white frame emerges from his clothing, and he carefully drapes the clothes over the arm of the sofa. He turns to recline on the couch, splaying his body at an angle in order to lie mostly flat on it, and reaches toward his member. You step to move toward him, but he extends a hand to stop you.  


“You,” he says, pointing, “do not move until I tell you to.” He maintains still in this posture until he is certain you will obey. “I want you to watch me.”  


You plant your feet on the ground, frozen, while Astor settles again and sets his eyes upon you. You watch him as he spreads his legs and runs his hands up and down the length of his shaft, panting more heavily with each progressing movement. While he continues to slip further into this sensation, he does not once break his gaze. Shortly, though, while he maintains his rigid, albeit, pleasured, stare at you, your eyes drift from his and on to his middle eye, atop his forehead. There, you are pulled into its own weight, mesmerized, forgetting, for a moment, that you stand so cold and bare on the castle floor, or that the eye’s own wielder is watching you with such voyeuristic lust.  


Shortly, you come back into your senses, shaken away from the eye’s hypnotism, and stare again back at Astor. Even from here, you can see how his organ twitches with desire, excreting the clear, watery fluid that is his body’s own lubricant. The fluid oozes between his fingers as his tugging momentarily comes to a slow; sweat beginning to appear over him, gathering his grayish, mauve-purple hair into beautiful threads that hang tangled over his face. But even with these intricate braids and threads to partially conceal his face, you can sense the urgency and the immediacy in his action, and he can no longer maintain the trancelike focus of his previous state.  


“Come here,” he says, in desperation. His breath is heavy, and he can hardly make out the words. He reaches out to you like a lifeline. “On top of me. Now.”  


Your bare feet dash across the stone and you hoist yourself up onto him, straddling him and pressing your body down to meet his. He guides your hips to start their rhythm as he lets out a deep exhale upon breaching himself inside. You feel his cock slide up into you, deeply, and sharply, but effortlessly. The cold of his skin contrasts greatly with the warmth of your own, especially as you had begun to feel the heat and blood pool there in anticipation, but this stark difference makes the pierce all the more exciting. It had been awhile since you two last had intercourse, but his patience and teasing had softened your floor enough to make entry seamless--and, most of all, indulgent. You can’t help but let out a moan, which he answers in turn. He thrusts into you at the same time as you ride him, pushing and throbbing against the most sensitive folds of your delicate insides. You are his, and he knows this of you.  


“Oh god, oh please me,” he says, flushed, as he reaches up to your face. He adjusts, sitting up only a bit further to pull himself closer to you. “Oh how I missed you.” He rests his head back down on the arm of the couch and allows his hands to fall again to your breasts, which he tugs and squeezes as you continue to rock back and forth. He slides his hands for yours, but you instead reach behind you and find the base of his shaft, where his penis still slides in and out of you, rhythmically. From there, you reach for his balls, which you fondle and bring closer to your body as you pick up your speed, beginning to shamelessly ride him like a plaything that he so often makes of you. You press your fingers closer to his own hole and run them along the outside, your other hand moves further behind your neck to curl your spine backward, putting your breasts on display. He lets out another moan.  


“I am yours, entirely,” he says, the ecstasy brimming in his voice. But in another breath, the movement stops, and he adjusts himself again. He sits up and brings his hand back to your head. “But you certainly know how to vex me, don’t you? Trying to rob me of the upper hand.”  


Suddenly, he twists around and you are beneath him, on your stomach. He holds you down and leans in. “Clever game you’re playing,” he says. He leans in even closer, now to where he is almost laying on top of you, and whispers again into your ear. “And to think you almost won. But you are my toy, and not the other way around, and such insolence cannot go unpunished.”  


He squeezes your ass, forcefully, digging his nails into the thick of your skin. You recoil and let out a moan, but he silences you. “You are an object,” he says again. “A pawn. A delicate, fragile, yet intricate masterpiece in our grand design, but an object nonetheless.” Holding you down, he forces his fingers inside you. You wince, but he continues threading his fingers in and out of you, each push more aggressive than the last.  


“I am your master, and you will bow to me, no matter how much you may want it, no matter how your body aches for me.” He pauses for a moment, slowing to admire the outward contours of your vagina. He traces his fingers around them, skirting around the edge of your opening without fully going inside. “You have no pleasure until I tell you, and I take from you what I desire before you get what you want,” he says. “Do I make myself clear?”  


You nod, making another sound in the affirmative as best you can.  


“Now, how to go about punishing you?” he says walking his fingers up and down your back. His fingernails feel a bit like tiny needle-like footsteps, and this is a point he emphasizes. “You’ve already been tied up. Unless, of course, that wasn’t enough for you, little pest.” He scratches all the way down your back, then leans in to study you. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he says, looking into your face. He sits you up to further examine you, but still holds your shoulders down while he stands to maintain his power above you. “I see, you did this on purpose so I’d correct you. Clever girl. I admire your cunning.” He brushes his hand across the length of your collarbone, pouting in thought. “Well, I must say, it wouldn’t be very much of a punishment in that case, but perhaps if you could convince me…”  


He presses his fingers into your mouth again. This time, he props one knee up on the sofa beside you, blocking you in, and pulls your head toward his crotch. “Let me see you behave,” he says, pressing the head of his penis against your lips.  


You oblige, and he slides his cock further into your mouth. You close your eyes, beginning to suck on him like his little poppet. He holds your head there and tugs on your hair. “Good girl,” he says, relaxing into it. “Give me all of your attention like the hungry, thirsty whore you are.”  


While he holds you there, you raise your hands to the base of his shaft for ease of access and use them to help keep the motion. His dick--still cold in your mouth--begins to warm in the combination of saliva and movement, and it fills your mouth so fully that you keep moving to readjust your tongue, and you can feel his excretion slowly trickling down the back of your throat. You swallow, and then swallow again, wishing you could fit more of him inside you. But as you reach further, pulling more of his body into you, your gut surges, and you lurch forward, hitting your gag reflex. He laughs.  


“Can’t get enough of me, can you?” he asks. He pulls his cock out of your mouth and uses his hand to rub it across your face, teasing your lips. A mixture of saliva and precum leaves its trail across your cheeks and forehead, and you follow his tip with your tongue and wrap around it where you can. “That’s a good girl,” he says, letting your lips close around him once more. “Suck me.”  


You obey again, savoring the way his body fits into your mouth and the taste he fills you with. You start slow, at first just enjoying having it there, exploring it with your lips and tongue, but then as he grips you tighter, you follow his sense of lustful need and pick up the pace. This continues for awhile as you skirt along the edge of your gag reflex, adjusting and readjusting to find the perfect angle to accommodate him without going over the edge, and he revels in the way you enjoy him.  


“Oh god, oh excellent,” he says. He withdraws his penis from inside you once more, but continues to rub it for stimulation. “That was very good of you. And I’m feeling quite the merciful ruler today, so perhaps now I will grant you what you desire.”  


He steps back and gives you room once more. You adjust, laying out and leaning on the arm of the sofa now, with a moment to breathe. He glances at you and his eyes break a quick smile at your form, catching you positioned in this playful odalisque. But he goes back to the sheets and threads, silk and rope, and begins gathering them.  


“Have you heard the story of the fates, my love?” he asks, folding over some of the thread. “I’m certain I’ve told you before, but please humor me in explaining it to you again.”  


You roll toward him, interested.  


“The fates, they say, are the goddesses who weave the destinies of all mortals at birth. But, in truth, the reality is that fate is a force, and it reigns above all. What is fated to happen will always happen, and what is not will never come to pass. This is the ultimate natural law, the way our universe runs its course. And while the foolish may believe that fate only applies to mortals, the enlightened know that fate determines even the lives of the gods,” he says. He walks to the wall with the pile of rope and fabrics in hand, some of which trail behind him like a gown, and he stops to examine the sconces on the wall. You can see him glancing to the rafters, the statues, the columns and other furnishings and architecture in the room, doing some mental calculations. After another moment, he determines the appropriate, mathematical angle, and looks back over to you.  


“Here,” he says, motioning for you to stand. You come to his side, standing in the position he has selected for you. He wraps the first bit of rope around you.  


“So you see, anyone who attempts to defy this natural law--anyone who dares stand against fate--yea, even the gods--surely, is bound to dig only deeper into their own grave,” he says, securing the first knot at your chest. “This is what befell the accursed kingdom of Hyrule. For their own people grew so bold to believe they could somehow circumvent the bonds of fate.”  


He begins to thread the next bits of rope around you, across your chest, woven through your arms, legs, securing each as he goes.  


“The fates, you see, exist across time, and they existed well before the kingdom of Hyrule, and will continue to exist well after our fair earth crumbles to dust. They were spinning their threads long before the birth of the Goddess Hylia, even setting into motion the lives of the Golden Goddesses themselves, and they will be there at the hour of their deaths. All are subject to Fate’s decree. Maybe, even, fate itself.”  


He extends the knot he has been working on to you, motioning you to put one arm through the loop, and then the other. He secures this again at your shoulder, twice at your elbows to where they hang comfortably--resting not too far extended outward, nor crushed too close your body. He loops another length of rope around a sconce, then another, tying it once, twice, three times, and again checking the weight to make it secure.  


“There are those that are chosen, and those who are not,” he says, coming back around to you. “And, for many millennia, we lived in a time when those who lived under the command of the Goddess Hylia were, in fact, chosen. The Goddess Hylia and her followers produced champions and heroes who squandered Ganon’s might again and again and again, for this is how it was fated to be,” he says, as he begins to tie the portions securing you and the sconces together. “The problem, however, was that the people of Hylia began to realize they were chosen, and depend on it, and foolishly assume that this would always be the case. Fate, however,” he says, grasping firmly onto the ties of the rope in front of you, “had other plans.”  


At this, he gives a hard tug, and all the loosened portions tighten. Your feet rise into the air, but no grip on you is tightened to be unbearably painful. You are hanging there, secure, completely supported by the rope and threads that he has so masterfully threaded around you. He stops to admire your naked form, abbreviated by the knots and contours of the rope supporting you, and then continues.  


“The Fates, perhaps growing tired of the pompous followers of the Goddess Hylia, took pity on us. And they decided that they wanted us crushed beneath the heels of the Goddess no longer.”  


With this, Astor turns to his altar with the astral diorama and a few ceremonial objects--a goblet, a dagger, some candles--and draws the dagger into his hands. He examines the constellation pattern on the handle and unsheathes the blade. He turns it over a few times, weighing its sharpness, and dips it into an antiseptic herbal mixture sitting in a bowl nearby. He wipes the blade clean and approaches you.  


“And so the hypocrites, the arrogant dodgers and defiers of prophecy they were, were crushed under the heels of our own ruler, Calamity Ganon,” he says. He lifts the tip of the blade to your neck--gently, you can tell there is no ill-intent--and raises your chin with it. “And now we, the chosen, reap our bounty in a Hyrule granted to us by prophecy. By the fickle, yet merciful, generous, and all-knowing, inescapable fates.” He smiles, relishing the power he now holds over you, being bound by his thread and at the edge of his blade. “What a fortunate day to be us, my dear. And to witness it all unfold.”  


He grins, seeing the delicate and wavering trust in your eyes, and places the dagger back down on the table. You know he would never harm you, but any measure of danger naturally calls for a line of defense. He continues to gather layers of silk and rope, draping them around you, tying more knots, and spinning you into an intricate web, or a cocoon, becoming complete with your own set of wings and a dazzling, elegant dress train.  


“The Hylians, of course, had reason to believe their plan would succeed,” he says as he continues to weave around you. “It had before. They had all the same Guardians, technology, Divine Beasts, and even the same enemy. The only difference was, ten thousand years prior, they were on the side of fate. And the difference, my love, held the key,” he says, pinching you coyly and returning to his work.  


“What the Hylians achieved was not through their own prowess, or strength, nor even of their own teamwork, technology, or belief in childish drabble like the selfless, all-consuming power of love,” he says, giving a pout, sarcastically, as he forms the last words, knowing that belief in any sort of martyr-like love was a foolish thing, for all mortals are selfish by nature. Better to embrace it than to pretend the world has some other sort of greater cause. “Their victories only occurred because they were who fate had decided the victor should be.”  


Maneuvering himself through and around the web that suspends you, Astor comes to face you again, steps back, and admires the mess of strings, fabric, and threads that surround your body, dangling from the sconces, statues, tables, and chairs. He smiles.  


“But fate has woven us a new thread, and in it we are the victors. Because now we are chosen, and they are not. And that was simply the only way it was ever meant to be,” he says. He reaches for the dagger and approaches you once more. Without pressing hard to make an incision, he traces the dagger around your skin, toying with the idea of a breach.  


“Perhaps this has all been one big lesson, you see?” he says. “A grim reminder from the fates that not even the gods can escape their will. And the last king of Hyrule and his companions serve as examples of what happens to all those--even, to those, who have been so fortunate for centuries--who ever dare to question or challenge their fate.” He turns the dagger flat against your body, and you feel its silvery coolness like his own skin.  


“We are the lucky ones, my love. We have at last been chosen, and they have not. Fortune smiles upon our empire, and, fate-willing, Calamity Ganon will rise to the ranks of the Goddess Hylia. And I, Hyrule’s new king.”  


Still holding onto the dagger, he presses his body to yours and kisses you, deeply. You do nothing but linger there--it’s the only thing you can do, in your current state--until he draws away from you and brushes your collar once more. He turns a portion of your hair in his hand. “We’ll do away with the name of course. It’s a remnant of that hideous regime--their wretched goddess, and their bumbling king.” He pauses, staring down at the rope that suspends you, how it crosses your hips and arms and breasts, and then looks back up at you again.  


“And you, my love. My princess, my queen. You are but a single thread in fortune’s magnificent tapestry. A centerpiece, no doubt, but one of so many moving, intricate threads that have woven together over the courses of our lives, over others’ lives, over eons and centuries of prophecies and living.” He kisses your legs, your stomach, your chest, your neck, and caresses your body as he studies you. “You shall be the heiress to a new kingdom. Fate-willing, the replacement for the one with the blood of the Goddess. If all goes according to plan, we will rise, collect the Triforce, and command it on our own. I shall inherit a piece, you another, and Lord Ganon, the third.”  


He kisses you again, squeezing your breasts and bringing your hips to his. “Is that pleasing to you, my love? Are you one day willing to become one in blood--Wisdom, Courage, and Power--with I and Lord Ganon?”  


He pinches your nipples, twisting them around, and you let out another cry. He grins and traces the contours of the rope and your body with his dagger. “Though, contrary to our working template, I am inclined to give you the Triforce of Courage, and I, Wisdom. For the ability to commune with the fates requires a practiced, trained measure of Wisdom only acquired through a lifetime of study. And Courage, on the other hand, is what it takes to trust such a mechanism, fully, without the luxury of knowing fate.” He thrusts the dagger toward you, stopping just short of your navel, but only grazing you by a thread. You wince, but make no other sound nor indication of fear. He smiles.  


“And that, my love, takes a profound measure of courage I have seen never on anyone before.”  


He kisses you once again, softly, slowly. When he pulls away, he again grazes the dagger across your skin, admiring its gleaming silver against your naked body. He looks back at you and holds you gently, addressing you quietly, as if to share a tender secret. “Would you indulge me, my love? In giving me a taste of that coveted blood of yours?”  


You nod, and his lips twist into another devilish smile. “Then hold still, my dear,” he says. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”  


For extra measure, he returns to the antiseptic tincture and treats the dagger once more. He turns back to you and runs the dagger up and down your form, assessing the best place to make his incision. After a moment of consideration, he narrows his eyes and closes in on an area on your outer arm--about halfway down from your shoulder. With a surgical hand, he pinches the skin upward so as to only gather what he intends to cut, and narrows his focus in on the spot. Carefully, he raises the dagger and slices into your skin. It burns, given the lingering antiseptic, but the sensation is not unbearable. You watch as he continues to attend the cut, squeezing the mark and watching as the blood begins to pool and trickle down your arm. He inhales deeply and then sighs, closing his eyes to savor the moment. He is standing in such close proximity to you, you can feel on your leg the way his body stiffens and rises. The sight of blood arouses him. He leans in as if to kiss the wound, pressing his lips to it and then tracing his tongue along the line. He holds it there, and you hold your breath as he stops, and you feel his tangible urge to begin greedily sucking out the fluid like a monster. But he restrains himself, turns to the table, and dips a small cloth in the antiseptic, which he then wipes tenderly on the wound. You wince, but know it is for your own good.  


He makes his next incision on your breast, careful to avoid any areas that would house delicate tendons and arteries. There, he again tastes your blood, and this time lingers to play with your nipples and suck on your breasts. You moan in pleasure, and you know he delights in not just your flesh, but the taste of your iron in his mouth. It excites him and feeds him, and, in a way, feeds into the eye that resides on his forehead--the power bestowed on him by his pact with Calamity Ganon. The eye that leeches off the power of his own life, and also of Malice and death and the pulsating aura of Hyrule’s blood moon. There are certain sacrifices he must make, and continue to make, in order to sustain that level of power. He does not let you in on these rituals, and he does not speak of them. But you know of them, and what they entail.  


He makes three more incisions--one on each of your outer forearms, another on your leg--and curtails his taste for blood in favor of admiring the beauty of the pure streaks of red that trail down your skin. He lets them drain there, stepping back to observe the whole tableaux--you, hanging there by a web of rope he wove, silk, and threads that form an intricate pair of wings, with blood dribbling down your breast and limbs—and retrieves the cloth to address each of the wounds.  


“I could paint you, my love,” he says as he cleans them. He looks at the web around you. You acknowledge it. “This is one of the most intricate pieces of work I’ve ever done, I must say. I suppose my hunger for you ignited a spark of creativity in me.” He rises, sets aside the cloth and the dagger, and moves closer to you, pressing his bare skin against your own. “I could paint you, but I could also devour you. And I think it’s time I finally got around to doing that. I’ve kept us waiting long enough.”  


At this, he grabs you, pulling your face to his and kissing you hard. You are caught breathless in his frenzy, as he moves quickly to take as much of you as he can. He alternates between kissing you up and down your body--making several quick, although thorough--stops at your vulva. On the last of these, he squeezes your legs tighter, taking in your scent like before. He lingers there and rises, sliding his fingers in and out of your vagina as he stares into your eyes and smiles. You want him in your body, and he recognizes your feverish desire. This time, he is apt to oblige.  


“You want me, don’t you?” he says. “I can see it. I can taste it. And I’m ready, my dear. To take you and rob you for all that you’re worth.”  


While you cannot do much in the way of moving, this seems to have been his grand design. He slides around behind you and does not hesitate to press his body inside. This time, there is more resistance, as you were less roused--although not uninterested--from his speech, and his ability to turn on a dime still takes you starkly by surprise. But that was the part that made him so invigorating. He thrusts into you, and you cry out from the force of it, and he begins fucking you like the dark, unrestrained prophet of Malice you know him to be. Using you and contorting you like the puppet to him you are. And you are inclined, in fact, to eagerly play this role, delighting in how his body fills you just as you delight in the brilliance of his mind. As you cry, he brings one of the threads around and gags you, pulling the silk around and tugging on your hair.  


As he continues pumping, one, two, three, four, five--harder and harder and deeper into you still, fitting the whole length of his shaft inside you--you cry out louder, and he moans your name in return. He holds one hand at your hips, where you bend over, suspended, while he then reaches his other up to grab support of the web. If not for the fact that he was fucking your mind out, you would perhaps admire his handiwork--how it could accommodate the entire weight of your body, in addition to the force of his movement, and still have room for him to hang for support. But there would be time for that later. In the present, he was railing you, bad. And in the best, most delectable way.  


He slides the gag out from over you and lets it fall helplessly to the floor. “Say my name,” he demands, breathlessly, and you comply. At first, quietly. “Louder,” he says. You comply. “Louder!” he orders. You are nearly yelling at this point, wailing his name in ecstasy as you feel his body slam up behind you. “I want you to beg for me,” he says. “Beg for it. Whine for how much you need me. How much you want me to fuck you.”  


You give over to this wave of needing, wanting his body more than can be physically given, past where there is even room in your viscera. You feel him pound against the limits of your body, and you wish, beg for yourself to extend further as you continue to plead his name. You rock back and forth, hanging so comfortably, effortlessly, as the strings of his web cradle you, requiring absolutely no effort on your part to maintain. Your hair dangles loose into your face, shaking doward in front of you, and you rock on your toes--which are just barely touching the floor--as he continues to ride you. You feel him begin to lock on, and tighten. He pulls you closer to him, shortening the distance between his thrusts, between your body and his. He’s getting close. You hear it in his voice, feel it in his movements, in his rhythm, in his sweat, and you want it. Badly. There would be no sensation in the world like feeling him cum inside you right now, and you’re getting close on your own.  


So you beg for it. And he does. As you scream his name, and plea, he reaches again for the dagger and presses it against one of the threads. As he pries on it, slicing it loose, the relief of tension on the thread spills you over into an ecstasy that consumes your entire being. Your body jerks itself, seizes, and vibrates. You moan, although you are not sure how much, as the tingling spreads up your spine, throughout your limbs, and into your brain, sending shooting, spiraling daggers of feeling through your nervous system. In this time, Astor continues pumping, riding your ecstasy, prolonging the sensation for your pleasure, and, on the tail end, you feel his release.  


Between your labia, you feel that familiar sensation--that distinct throbbing of that certain gland that spells his essence. He moans, holds you still there, and you sigh as it pours into you. In this way, you feel like you belong to him. It is his mark, his material, and he has given it freely inside of you. He holds you there, slowing, panting, until the throbbing ends, and you both stop, breathing together. After a few more moments, he withdraws from you, and you feel the trail that follows him out. Astor reaches inside of you, gathering some of it and running it between his fingers. You feel him move, and you know this is him raising his fingers to his lips in order to smell it, taste it, the combination of him and you. He licks some from his fingers, then kneels down and pleasures you lightly again, orally, although he does not stay long. The spot is raw, and sensitive, and he knows this. So he rises, gathers another cloth from the table, and begins to clean up the mess.  


“That was excellent my dear, thank you,” he says, as he rubs the rag against his own body, then starts on your legs. As he sweeps, he continues to admire both his work and your form. “You are a creature of tantalizing beauty. And, in my carnal passion, I can never have enough of you.”  


You smile. You know what a carnal, passionate creature he is.  


“I bless the fates for drawing you to me, and placing us on this path toward ascension,” he says. “I know not what we did to deserve it--what caused Fate to finally and mercifully select us--but when the fates grant you a gift, you do not question why or from whence it came. And this release,” he slices through another string. For some reason, the web feels so connected to you, that now you react as each cord as it is cut. “This release is at the heart of all existence. Both in the carnal sense--the creation of life, from the secretion of the body, and by the will of the fates--and in the spiritual. And, most importantly, in the severance of the threads of life. The weaving of the tapestry, and where each point begins and ends. All threads will be cut one day, until no tapestry remains. From there, I often wonder what fate will do.”  


He pauses, and approaches you. He caresses you delicately once more, savoring the final moments of his beautiful weaving, and raises the dagger to the first thread in the sequence. “It’s time to cut you free, my love,” he says. “As all good things must come to an end.” He slices through, and you feel part of the web sink. He continues on in this fashion, cutting each of the cords in the reverse order he made them. Curving around, with, between the thread and your skin, careful not to graze and cut any part of you. He recites a sort of hymn as he goes.  


“Bless the fates that have given you to me.” Snip. “And bless the fates that make you mine.” Snip. “Bless the fates that disposed of the king, bringing our Lord into power.” Snip. “Bless the fates that bring the proud to justice.” Snip. “And bless the fates that turn the odds in our favor.” Snip. “Bless the fates that brought this kingdom to ruin.” Snip. “And bless the fates that brought our forces to safety.” Snip. “Thankful I am for the threads I have cut.” Snip. “In the name of our Lord, and in the name of the fates.” Snip. “What a pleasure, what an honor it was to be of such service to my master.” Snip. “To cut the threads of Daruk.” Snip. “Mipha.” Snip. “Urbosa.” Snip. “Revali.” Snip. “And that graceless Hylian, Link.” Snip.  


“But most of all, what a blessing it was to cut the threads of the last of Hyrule’s royal line. The thread of King Rhoam.” Snip. “And of little Princess Zelda, unfortunate as she was, to never awaken her Goddess power.” Snip. He pauses for a moment, looking at you, and what few threads he has left to cut, bringing the dagger down to his side. “I pity for Zelda, being the last to die. But it had been written, and she had to be deposed.” Another brief pause. His words are thoughtful and heavy. “May the Queen rest in peace.”  


This lingers. He continues. “She was foolish, yes, but--and though it may be imprudent of me to say--to many, she was taken before her time.”  


There is a silence, and you stare at him deeply. You know intimately how he has battled with his past as a royal seer, having personal and near-familial ties with the slaughtered royalty of Hyrule. You stare for another moment, and you watch him drift back into his senses. He shakes his head and approaches you. “But that is not for mortals to decide. Fate hears no pleas nor protestations. She was taken at exactly her time. And that is why the fates must be feared, and their decisions regarded. And I, their high priest, am no exception to this decree.”  


You move toward him, although you cannot go far, and he moves forward and embraces you with a kiss. You feel the pounding in his bare chest and the ways in which this exchange has softened him. “Thank you, my love, for indulging me. And most of all, for your understanding. I’ve gotten away from myself. Let’s get you comfortable, my dear, and warm. I still want to enjoy you.”  


Astor brings the knife to you once more, cutting down the remaining threads, freeing you of the intricate--and beautiful, if inescapable--web he had designed. He wraps you in his arms and brings you down to the sofa, where you continue to delight in each others’ flesh.  


You would never trust anyone but Astor to wield a knife around you, for fear that they might cut your thread. But, if it was Astor, you’d die at least knowing it was a personal directive of fate.


End file.
